Читать книгу Westy Martin on the Old Indian Trail - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 6

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There was silence—profound silence—for the open span of perhaps thirty seconds. For those inside the car, it was a silence fraught with terrible fear. But to those outside—what did it mean? They seemed to be intent—listening to a distant, almost meaningless sound coming from afar, and yet their eyes were fixed upon their intended victims.

Westy listened then, too. He thought he detected a quick flicker of anxiety upon those two faces. As the sound grew louder, he noticed that their features drew up taut. They feared something—had other concerns besides their immediate one, Westy was sure.

The sound of a starting motor broke the tense silence of that fear-ridden area. The gunmen started nervously, but did not let their guns stray one sixteenth of an inch from their captives. One of the men, shorter and more stockily built than his pal, emitted an oath, for in that second the “evil eye” had sped away into the darkness.

The sound from afar became very real—like a motorcycle—perhaps two, bearing down upon them from the east. The little group in the car took a bit of hope in hearing it. But the taller gunman shifted on his feet and pulled open the front door of the car.

“C’mon, Buddy,” he said to Mr. Hollister, “get out and make it snappy!”

The short man opened the back door and ordered the boys out, also. Benny was the last to get out but the first to find his voice. “Hah!” he shouted, with a falsetto laugh following. “We come up by the Indian Trail to find ghosts of dead Indians and what do we get yet? A couple of tough bandits from New York!”

“Shut up, you!” the short one growled, poking Benny in the ribs with his gun. “Stand out there with the rest of them!”

Benny, silenced into submission, took his stand in the road. The two gunmen then climbed into the car, the tall man sitting at the wheel. He bent forward and tried the starter, but no sound issued from the engine. He tried again, but without success and in desperation got out of the car, his companion following.

“Get out of the road and under cover!” the tall man ordered the captives. Then peering down into Mr. Hollister’s face, he said quietly: “Account of you feller, bein’ so smart and stallin’ that car on me, yer kin take yer medicine with me ’n me pal! Walk fast and find a hidin’ place where we kin use our guns foist. Them’s two coppers trailin’ us, now. See!”

The boys glanced up the road. The gunmen’s pursuers were indeed almost upon them. Near enough to spur the short man into action. He herded the captives together and walked back of them, Mr. Hollister leading the line, and the boys following.

They struck into the underbrush. Except for a few large trees, it was pretty open and, by the gunmen’s flashlight, Mr. Hollister espied a huge rock, large enough and wide enough to screen them all. It afforded some protection for his young charges, he decided, in the event of gun play. So to this they made their way.

The motorcycles came thundering along, slowed down and stopped. Then ensued tense, groping moments in which they stood—the highwaymen flanked by Benny and Mr. Hollister on one side and Westy and Warde on the other. In this way, they protected themselves from attack from either side of the rock. They crouched close to the stone, their guns ready.

The darkness and silence became so intense as to be intolerable. A stifled “Oi!” came from Benny’s direction, and Westy’s taut nerves became more taut as he caught a quick, catlike movement on the part of the short gunman. He knew it meant that poor Benny had just received another rough prod in the ribs with a gun.

Two powerful flashlights gleamed on either side of the rock, spreading rapidly from long, thin shafts into broad areas of light. It was the officers, Westy knew. His heart began beating like a triphammer against his chest. How near to the rock were they, he wondered.

Was Warde’s heart beating as fast as his own? And Benny—good, true, gentle Benny, how did he feel? Truly, he must be shivering now. Not in the presence of ghosts, but in the presence of real, starkly real, death. There was nothing make-believe about that, Westy knew. Tears welled up in his eyes at the remembrance of his little Jewish friend’s wistful humor concerning Indian ghosts. He wished he could say just one word to Benny now. Something to give him courage.

The lights circled about, playing a sort of will-o’-the-wisp game upon the rock. Then they rose higher, lingering caressingly across the top of it. Poor Mr. Hollister, Westy thought, as he watched it—how frantic it must make him to think of himself and his son in such a plight—at the mercy of two bandits.

The light on Westy’s side errantly strayed again, circling about the field. The other one, like some portentous signal from above, landed directly upon Benny’s shining black hair. Benny heaved a choking sort of sigh. It was pitiful to hear.

Westy’s feet became icy. His throat was dry and parched. Never in his life, within his memory, had he felt so utterly helpless—useless. A wild instinct whispered somewhere in the depths of his mind for him to shout. To run. To make some desperate attempt to give the alarm to the searching officers.

But his saner instincts counteracted that first impulse. His unselfish nature triumphed over selfish self-preservation. He had not himself alone to think of—he had three other lives to take into consideration. Three other lives as worthy as his own.

The officers didn’t know that four innocent people were being used to protect the lives of two desperate bandits. Perhaps they were murderers! Why, Westy reminded himself, men of that kind would stop at nothing! If he cried out they would shoot him, shoot Benny and Warde and Mr. Hollister, perhaps.

Ah, yes, he must be careful. A rash thought, a reckless attempt would mean....